


SM Week (2017)

by MagicalStranger13



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-17 13:30:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11852586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicalStranger13/pseuds/MagicalStranger13
Summary: Canon Divergence, Existing Media, Kids Day, Beyond Field and Forest, Roland Redemption or Revenge Upon Roland, When We Are Old





	1. Reunited

A year ago, Marianne thought she knew what true heartbreak was.  She had cried and wallowed, convinced that her pain was beyond measure. 

How miserably foolish, because now, kneeling here in the dirt, at the edge of a cliff, staring down into a dark, dusty void where a mighty castle and its equally mighty king had fallen only moments before sunrise, she realized…

…hell, _that_ pain hadn’t even come  _close_  to  _this_.

It was as if a falcon had ripped a chunk from her breast with its razor-sharp talons and she was bleeding a river from the wound.  Her frozen shock gradually melted into tears pattering the uncaring ground, and she found herself longing to fade with the waning night that had shown her such wonders.

As the cruel morning grew, so did her despair, for it was a reminder of the endless slew of days she would continue to face _alone_.  To think, she once had the gall to believe she was stronger that way.  Oh, the irony!  She was as fragile and tragic as frost on a wilting lotus.  

It was all her fault.  

Why?

 _Why_  hadn’t she  _listened_?

She really  _was_  stupid.  

_So, so, so STUPID!!!_

If she’d gotten back, as he’d warned her to, he wouldn’t have had to slow down his momentum.   _Both_ he and Dawn would’ve made it out safely. But no, she just  _had_  to be all stubborn and heroic!  Never counting the cost, just acting without thinking it all through!  And she’d finally paid the ultimate price for her recklessness.  

She’d… _killed_  him.  

The one person she never thought could’ve existed, who had challenged her, accepted her, protected her, and of course, exceeded her expectations, though she’d teased otherwise.

But she’d lost him.  

It was all the worse that he was an innocent soul.  Yes, he had abducted her sister, but only in retaliation to being wronged first and trying to prevent mass chaos.  She honestly couldn’t say that her kingdom would not have done something similar, had they been in his place.  Damn the senselessness of it all!

When Dawn approached and gently touched her shoulder in comfort, she was quick to conceal the majority of her woe so she could embrace her, beyond grateful to the heavens that she was free from that cursed spell.  And though she was happy for Dawn and Sunny as she watched them take hands, she loathed herself for feeling the slightest twinge of jealousy.  

 _Their_  love was blossoming at last.   _Hers_  had ended before it could begin.  

It just wasn’t fair.

Unable to bear it, she pulled away from her sister’s arms and gazed mournfully down into the pit one last time.  For what reason, she did not know.  Survival would’ve been impossible, and nothing but grey, lifeless fog stared back up at her.  She took a deep breath, despite how much it greatly hurt her to do so, and swayed to turn…

…but she paused.

.

.

.

She could’ve  _sworn_  she’d heard something.  Something unusual amidst the waking forest and the grief-stricken whimpers of the goblins in the mixed crowd behind her.  

It sounded…like a distant cough from….  

_No._

It couldn’t be.

She was just hearing things.  

…Yet she still had not moved an inch.

Daring to hope that fate would be kind to her just once more, she crept to the edge of the cliff and tilted her head to hear, silencing Dawn’s inquiry with a wave of her hand.  

For several long, terrible moments, she heard nothing but her own breathing and the rapid drum of her pulse in her ears.

Sorrow tightened its fist in her stomach and she began to yield…

-but then it came.

Her heart shot straight up through her throat and into her very brain at the faint, but unmistakable voice calling for help from below.

Caught up in an immediate cyclone of emotions and energy she could neither name nor control, she acted upon pure instinct and threw herself from the ledge, shooting into the chasm like an arrow.  Thankfully, some semblance of logic gripped her mind before she could blindly dive into the fog concealing what she knew to be at  _least_  massive chunks of jagged rubble.  She spread her wings to catch herself and descended more slowly into the unknown.  

Once past the fog, visibility improved, but only just.  She was surrounded by immense clouds of dust and black, towering shapes of debris, stone, or root; she could not tell in the dim light.  

Her panic rose when she realized she had not heard the voice again.

“BOG?!  BOG, CAN YOU HEAR ME?!”

She tried not to flinch at the sound of her harsh echo bouncing through the abyss, making it seem all the more empty.  The following seconds were the longest of her lifetime, and she prayed she was not going mad.

_Please, please, please!  Oh, please!!!_

“…Marianne?!”

!!!

“Marianne, i-is that you?!”

A joy she had not known since the day she first learned to fly erupted within her chest at the far off, but blessed answer.

“BOG!  BOG, WHERE  _ARE_  YOU?!”  Marianne screamed, spinning about, trying to pinpoint the origin.

“Here!  Marianne, I’m  _here_!”  

Selecting a seemingly northward direction, Marianne carefully, but urgently, made her way through the murk and gloom.  Lower and lower she flew, coughing on dust and occasionally calling out to make sure she maintained her path.  

Bog’s voice grew louder and closer, and eventually, she saw what appeared to be the floor of the trench. She reached out with the toe of her boot to test its stability: it gave way beneath her foot like sand.  It was not soil, but mounds of splintered wood. She was nearing the center of the wreckage.

Randomly, she was struck by the awful supposition that Bog might be mortally wounded; that she would find him only to lose him all over again.  She shook the offensive fear away.  No, she was being paranoid.  He sounded too strong to be badly hurt.

Venturing further, she soon caught sight of something white in the distance.  Picking up speed, it was revealed to be the skull that once marked the entrance to the castle, tilted on its left side, and half crushed under a mountain of dirt and broken bark.    

Breath too stolen for speech, Marianne raced to alight upon the dead face, eyes raking over the horrible cracks and chips in the bone, when suddenly, a hand, scaled and clawed, shot out through a narrow gap in the clenched teeth with such abruptness, she gasped in surprise, but was almost instantly grabbing and tugging at it to wind the whole arm around her.  

“Bog!  Oh,  _Bog_!”    

Fresh sobs of pure, insurmountable elation sprang forth at the sound of Bog’s relieved laughter from within, and for what could’ve been a millennium, they awkwardly, but no less passionately held each other tight.    

“Marianne,” Bog managed to say after some time, “I-I can’t get out.  It’s too heavy, an’ I sprained my other arm.  Can ye help me?”

Reality crashed over Marianne like a felled tree, and she blushed as she entangled herself from Bog’s grasp and wildly looked around for an avenue of escape from his prison. Briefly, she considered going back to the cliff to gather assistance from the crowd, but she was far too impatient for that, not to mention seriously reluctant to leave Bog’s side.

_Think!  There’s gotta be a way!_

“Bog, your staff!  Do you still have it?”

“…Yes, why?”

“I’ve got an idea! Stick the top of the staff though the hole; about halfway out!”

Bog did as he was instructed, and Marianne seized the iron weapon just below the decorative crown.

“Now what?”  Bog asked.

“When I tell you, push the jaws open as hard as you can.  I’m gonna try to use the staff as a kind of lever to help you.  Got it?”

“Alright, I got it!”

“Ready?”

“…Yeah!”

“One…two… _three_!  GO!”  

It was difficult, knowing that their angle was off, and that her weight wouldn’t do her any favors, Marianne was forced to pull  _up_  on the staff instead of push down, using her wings to give her extra force. She could hear Bog grunting and straining inside the mouth, but the dull scraping sounds of bone sliding against bone egged her on.  The shattered, wooden remains of Bog’s home trembled from the gradual movement and rolled off the obscured cranium, lightening their load by degrees. Marianne pulled harder as she saw the mossy teeth parting.

_Yes, yes!  Almost there!_

What happened next, nearly scared her so bad, her hair turned white.  There was a deafening snap, and she felt the rod jerk unnaturally towards her.  She had  _not_  broken Bog’s royal staff, fortunately, only the top of the skull.  The weapon carved a vicious path through the brittle snout like glass.  

At the unsteady lurch, the dilapidated stump fragments cascaded down like a mudslide, but Bog was faster.  Fighting against the current of rubbish, Bog wriggled himself through the impromptu opening Marianne had created, and was free.

For a beat, the two just gaped at each other, one in gratitude and tenderness, the other in awe and rapture that she was lost in those beautiful sky-blue eyes again.

“Thank ye, Marianne.”

“Bog!”  Marianne breathed, dropping the staff and rushing to cup his thin, prickly cheeks, scanning him in vain for injuries.  “Oh, thank  _goodness_!  Are you okay?!”

He nodded and smiled at her with his crooked fangs.

“Yes.  Yes, I’m fine; wings, shoulders, head…all good, Tough Gir-!”

Hearing his favorite nickname for her, Marianne tossed all sense of decorum and pride to the wind. She cut him off by throwing herself into his arms and kissing him as if there was no tomorrow.

But there  _would_  be, and as Bog shyly returned her kiss, she knew there would be  _many_ , and they would spend each and every one of them  ** _together_**.


	2. Dark Forest: The Lost Kingdom

The first thing Marianne grew aware of in the darkness, were voices.  Maybe two or three of them, incessantly murmuring amongst each other, and disturbing her sleep.  Was her sister up late talking to Sunny and Pare again?  

_Wait…_

No, she hadn’t been sleeping.

She’d been  _unconscious_.

The fire.

The fall.

Her focus began to condense as she felt something curiously prod the corner of her glasses, and she gradually realized two very important things almost simultaneously:

One, she ached from head to toe.  And two, she didn’t recognize a single one of the voices whispering  _very_  close to her face.

Confused and still slightly dazed, she blinked her eyes open and as her vision cleared, her shock and horror mounted when she found herself staring into the faces of  _five_  terrifying creatures.  

They were  _enormous_ , at least compared to herself.  Their figures were stocky and muscular, especially around the arms and shoulders, suggesting  _massive_  strength.  A mix of reptilian and amphibian features could be found in their leathery skin, webbed ears, and lack of prominent noses and wings.

But they certainly had  _teeth_!  Vicious daggers that left no question as to their being carnivorous.    

There was only  _one_  of them that was different.

Different, but no less intimidating.  

Immobile from fear and soreness, Marianne trembled and pressed back against the rocky floor beneath her as the  _different_  one drew closer.  

Unlike its companions, this creature was much taller and lanky in build.  It was covered with an odd sort of greyish-brown and scuffed exoskeleton, which…seemed to be patterned like the armor of a soldier, no, a  _warrior_!  

Why, it had vambraces, a kind of overlaying curiass, and paulrdrons ending in upward spikes on either side of its head!  A cluster of leafy scales lined the scalp, crowning a sternly pale face with intensely sharp cheekbones, a snipe nose, and scarred, thin lips over a jutting chin, dotted with tiny thorns for stubble. 

Its eyes were in complete shadow, making it appear almost demonic as it leaned in and sniffed at her, barring its fangs.  

Marianne wished with all her might that she had her sword with her, just to not feel so helpless, but when there was a little pull on the opening of her top, her body instinctually took action.  

Maidenhood offended, and determined not to be eaten alive without a fight, Marianne’s right hook flew out with a scream of rage and connected perfectly with the jaw of her gangly would-be molester.

Unfortunately, the beat of alarm she’d gained was altogether useless, for the next thing Marianne knew, her arms and legs were being pinned in place by the other four savagely snarling creatures, one of which was raising a gigantic, threatening fist directly over her head.  

The rough treatment made Marianne conscious of a harsh, stinging sensation in her upper chest, but her heart was in her throat, preventing her from crying out as she cringed, awaiting the deadly blow.

But it never came.

Instead, there was a furious, barked command, and her captors immediately whimpered and relented. However, despite the freedom, Marianne was frozen in surprise.  

Was she crazy, or…had that fifth creature, the one she’d struck…

…had it just spoken… _Goblin_?

 _Yes…yes, I think it_ did _!  I’m sure it said: ‘ENOUGH’!_

That had to mean-!

They must be-!

_No way!!!_

This was all so surreal!  Hearing someone else speak it after spending so many years as the only person to study the language since her mother’s death!  And she’d never  _dreamed_  of finding any actual  _living_ goblins on this expedition!  Ruins were one thing, but a still thriving civilization?!        

Overcome with the weight of her discovery, Marianne eagerly made to sit up and communicate, but was stifled by the painful flare in her chest again.  Staring down, she saw that there was a nasty, several inch-long gash just to the left of her right shoulder, and it was bleeding quite steadily.  

Her concern was soon distracted by the sudden presence of a warm, orange glow around her.  Looking up in question, she noticed with amazement that the origin of the phenomenon was the creatu-…… _goblins_ ; or their necklaces, to be more specific.  A simple loop of fine, dark leather, bound to a curious, gleaming nugget of amber-colored crystal for a pendant.  So beautiful and strange!      

The closest one to her belonged to the fifth goblin.    

It was rubbing its abused jaw and growling quietly, and Marianne was instantly struck by its glaring eyes, now visible in the soft light.  They were the clearest and most exquisite shade of blue she’d ever beheld in her thirty-two years of life! 

Her fright melted away as they gazed at each other.  Mysterious flutters touched her stomach and her pulse slowly increased in volume. Something, hell if she knew what exactly, told her it was likely a male.

This goblin, who she assumed at this point was the leader, eventually shifted his focus to the wound on her chest. He carefully reached forward with a clawed hand, glancing up at her once more in warning, before grasping her top a second time and tugging the fabric aside to better expose the cut.  

Marianne stiffened, nervous and not sure what to expect, but what ensued couldn’t have been further from her most imaginative of guesses!

Gently, the goblin raised his shining pendant and tapped it once against the spot.  He followed this by firmly pressing the large palm of his other hand flat against her injured flesh.  

Assuming he was trying to stem the blood flow with pressure, Marianne grunted at the uncomfortable throb, but the goblin released her after a mere few seconds, and she was startled to see a luminous, orange imprint of his hand left behind.  It faded rather quickly, and when it was gone, her skin was completely  _healed_! There wasn’t even a scar!

Utterly stunned at such a fascinating and logic-defying display, Marianne could only gape at her mystical doctor in silent awe and gratitude.  

As if sensing her feeling, the goblin gave her a small, crooked grin in return. 


	3. The Rock King

My kid (in his adult form) OC, the Rock King, son of Bog and Marianne.

A _huge_ thanks to my boyfriend, willunar, for working so hard on this in time for Strange Magic Week!  Love you!!!

As you can see, Rock has transparent wings like the glass-wing butterfly, but they are much thinner, like his father's.  Also like his father, scales grow on his body like armor, but most of his skin is naturally pretty rough, hence why he wears no shoes.  Like all fairy males, he has external genitalia, so he wears pants for modesty's sake.  He keeps his hairstyle wild like his mother, and his eyes take after hers as well, but are very bright like the amber in the royal staff; the goblins see this as a sign of his status.


	4. Forsaken

To the northeast edge of the esteemed Dark Forest, far, far beyond the goblins’ familiar domain, stands the crescent mountain range known as Wolf Jaw, named thus for its jagged peaks, forever tipped with snow, as if the great god Lupus had laid his bones to rest there, before his spirit leapt to the stars.

Many legends are told about just what lies beyond this majestic, natural border, and nary a one is without some element of horror and death.  A journey across is considered little more than a pipe dream to the good goblins of the forest.  The distance is much too great, the cold much too strong, the monsters much too  _hungry_.  

Therefore, the impenetrable barrier of Wolf Jaw is sensibly admired from a safe and  _broad_  distance.  After all, one does not walk  _into_  the mouth of a predator.

But if eyes were to see over this range, to finally solve the countless mysteries born from centuries of fireside tales and cautionary bedtime stories...

...they would discover that, disappointingly, fact often neither equals nor overwhelms fiction. 

An immeasurable desert, the grave of the earth, is all there is to be found in the dale belly behind Wolf Jaw.  

Yet, there is a  _history_  beneath the emptiness.  Clues of a time long forgotten.  From the diamond-patterned cracks in the sand between the numerous skeleton trees and underbrush left baking in the sun, one might reasonably conclude that this was once a vast and bountiful marshland.

What  _is_  lost forever to the windswept dust, are the remnants of the ancient race that thrived in this ghost nation.  The nameless species of unknown origin, possessing traits to be found in goblin, fairy,  _and_  insect forms.  Tall, winged, armored,  _fierce_.  A hive of countless male drones serving one, beautiful and  _mighty_  queen.

For centuries they ruled in this wet domain, conquering every beast and burden put to their task.  Hail to the warrior queen and her masses!  Such power and prosperity!    

How cruel is it then, that like a rushing river, fate will take such sudden and woeful turns?

When the clouds one day refused to weep, and the crops grew dry as the fauna fled, the hive met its terrible, agonizing defeat of starvation and madness.  Even to briefly fill the bellies of her poor children, did the queen herself surrender to the blade, and others followed...willingly or  _no_.  Heaven have mercy on their souls!    

Of all the unfortunate, there was a single drone who escaped the nightmare of home turned to husk.  For weeks, he watched the sky rumble above the mountain range, as if taunting its riches before the dying swamps.  So, when the last of his brothers were consumed, he pursued the rains with a devil’s fire.  

Driven by hunger and the insanity of what he’d endured, he scaled the rocks, tunneling deep into the lonely caves when the icy chill proved too much to bear, where the darkness turned his scales ashy-white and further twisted his sense and heart.  Yet he persisted, for an endless stream of desolate months.  Viciously following the sadistic voice of the storm.  

When at last he made his breach, he gazed upon an immense forest, lush and teeming with life from the frequent downpours.  He thought of his forsaken land and raged at the injustice of it all!  

Threefold his disdain increased when he soon encountered the strange creatures dwelling beneath the canopy.  They feared his foreign and sinister appearance, and sought to strike him down.  He fought as a savage, and as his enemies fell, one after another, he was struck by a wicked fancy.  

Yes, he had served a queen to tragic avail, now  _he_  would close himself off to the time before and conquer this place that had, in his mind, stolen the life from his realm.      

He would become a  _king_!

All who dare cross him would suffer for  _his_  suffering!

And he would take the name of the sound that had so mocked him.

One does not walk  _into_  the mouth of a predator, but my children, beware  _most_  what came  _out_  of the Wolf Jaw that fateful day...


	5. Who's the Beast?




	6. Selfish

“This isn’t like ye.”

 

“Mm, in what sense?”

 

“Yer quittin’.  Ye never quit.”

 

“It’s not ‘quitting’, it’s nature.”

 

“There’s still time.”

 

“Yeah, too much.”

 

“He needs ye.”

 

“He hasn’t needed me for years.  Besides, he’s strong and well loved.  He’ll manage.”

 

“ _Stay_  with him.”

 

“And how would you suggest I do that?  I’m not made of stone, you know.”

 

“…It’s no good here.”

 

“It  _will_ be for you; once I’m there.”

 

“Ye shouldnae worry about  _me_.”

 

“Heh, only  _you_  would refuse to be selfish about  _this_.”

 

“I was selfish enough before.”

 

“And now it’s  _my_  turn.”

 

“Bloody dingbat. It’s no’ a game!”

 

“Fine, then consider it  _payback_.”

 

“Fer what?”

 

“For not-”

 

“Mom?”

 

Griselda’s tired, beady eyes looked up to see her adult son, Bog, poking his head through her doorway, staring at her with deep concern.

 

“Yes?”

 

“…Are ye alright?”

 

“Just fine, honey.”

 

Bog was silent, scanning her pale, wrinkled face.  His eyes fell on the crystal bottle and herbs scattered across her bedside table.  Her medication.  Their light coating of dust made his shoulders sag.   _Still untouched…_

 

“Can…c-can I get ye anythin’?”

 

Griselda smoothed out her blankets and folded her hands over her stomach.

 

“A cup of tea would be lovely.”

 

Bog swallowed to keep himself intact.

 

“Okay, mom.  B-be right back.”

 

“Thank you, dear.”

 

“…I love ye.”

 

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

 

When he was gone for several silent minutes, Griselda finally sighed and readdressed the empty room:

 

“For not growing old  _with_  me, Briar.”  


End file.
